


Three Scenes

by ionthesparrow



Series: Hockey at the End of the World [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three missing scenes from the Hockey at the End of the World stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Scenes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [essb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/essb/gifts).



> Three missing scenes from the Hockey at the End of the World stories. For essb, for contributing to the community. A better or more thoughtful reader could not be asked for.

* * *

 

_Richie’s got a morning routine, which of course, Jeff knows. He usually presses up close to Jeff, until he realizes Jeff is awake, at which point he rolls away, and shortly after bolts for the bathroom [[...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/471985)] _

 

 

Mike wakes up warm, the most intense heat all along his back, where Jeff is pressed up behind him. They have the blankets pulled up high, and the air is startlingly cold on the exposed bits of Mike’s face. Jeff’s knees are tucked behind his, his hips just behind Mike’s, and Jeff’s arm is wrapped tightly around him, hand up under his shirt, fingers splayed across his stomach. 

Mike bites his lip. 

Jeff’s hand is dangerously low, and if he just moved it the tiniest bit lower, or if Mike shifted his hips just so, he could – 

This is his daily morning debate, because the blood and whatever other resources he needs for logical thought are instead pooling in his dick, and it seems feasible, it even seems rational. 

Mike holds himself very, very still. 

He can feel Jeff’s even exhales, warm on his ear. There’s an intense, gravity-like feeling of pressure, centered in his groin, dick hard and increasingly uncomfortable. Mike shifts a little, looking for relief; he could just reach down. Adjust himself, slightly. Jeff grumbles in his sleep, rubs his face against the nape of Mike’s neck. His grip on Mike flexing slightly, and his hips pressing against Mike. 

Mike really should not touch his dick right now. 

In his head, he turns around and presses up against Jeff, leaves shiny, slick smears across his stomach. Jeff’s mouth would be so fucking hot, and Mike could put his mouth on Jeff’s throat, taste his skin. And he could get Jeff’s hands, get those long fingers curled around him, stroking over him, the entire fucking team sleeping within 100 feet of them be damned. 

Mike bites his lip again; beats his head as quietly and unobtrusively as possible against the mattress. He cranes his neck, trying to judge if there’s any gray light seeping in through the windows yet. The earlier he gets up, the better chance he has of getting to jerk off with at least a semblance of privacy. Of course, the earlier he gets up, the less time he spends with Jeff’s hands against his skin, a brutal, terrible tease, even if he is unconscious. 

Fuck. 

Mike eases the covers back, slides free. Behind him, Jeff grumbles again, curls into a ball around the space Mike left. Mike pads towards the bathroom, quiet as possible past the rows of his sleeping teammates. The shower stall at the end – the only one set apart by any sort of partition – the one universally and silently acknowledged as the jack shack – is blessedly silent, empty. Mike braces a hand against the tile wall, carefully – since half of them hide hollowed-out spaces, stuffed with faded and moldy images of women – ancient swimwear or underwear advertisements, or even real, legit porn – not that Mike needs any additional inspiration. 

Sometimes it’s not even the sensation of Jeff pressed up against him, the drag of his hands or the heat of his body that Mike calls up, sometimes it’s just Jeff’s goddamn, stupid face, and the way he smiles at Mike. The way he looks at him like he doesn’t look at anybody else – 

Mike comes quickly, biting down on the fingers of one hand to stay quiet. He rinses his hand off under the spray, frigid water like tiny needles, tucks himself away, and rounds the corner. 

“Hey, kid.” 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Mike hisses, heart thumping up in his throat. 

Sharpie just smirks at him. “Working one out?” 

“A little goddamn privacy, is that too much to ask for?” Mike shoulders past him. 

Sharpie shrugs as though it’s all the same to him. “Aw, Ducks don’t be mad. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

Sharpie is such an unbelievable jackass. Mike glares. “What?” 

Sharpie drops down onto the locker room bench, blinks up at him, face oddly serious. “Have you – have you said anything to him?” 

The unexpectedness of it – it actually takes Mike a moment to twig to what he’s talking about. “Talked to – are you crazy?” 

Sharpie looks back at him, placid and unmoved. 

Sharpie is fucking crazy, Mike decides. “No.” Furthermore, Sharpie is a goddamned idiot. “No. Jeff’s not like that.” 

That gets him one slow, significant eyebrow lift. “I just meant you could tell him that it was making you _uncomfortable_.” Sharpie gestures vaguely between Mike and at the shower. As if Mike didn’t know what he meant. 

“No.” 

“Or, I mean,” Sharpie’s shrugs. “I could say something to him, if you didn’t want to – ” 

_“No.”_ Jesus. “No, for christssakes, do not fucking say anything to him – ” 

“Why not? Just tell him that his climbing into bed with you is – ” 

“Because he’ll stop.” It slips out before Mike can think about it. Because Mike can see how it would all play out: Sharpie thinking he’s fucking _helping_ , pulling Jeff aside and saying something stupid. _‘Hey did you know you’re giving your friend a hard on? Do you know how uncomfortable you’re making him?’_ And Jeff would stop – he’d stop climbing into bed with Mike, and he’d stop wrapping himself around him, because he’s not an _asshole,_ and – that just – 

“Oh.” Sharpie’s eyes are a little more focused now, gaze a little sharper. “Oh, you are far gone, aren’t you?” 

* * *

 

 

_“Fine!” Mike stalks out, slamming the door behind him. He blows past a couple of guys who basically plaster themselves to the wall in an effort to get out of his way. [[...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/528348)] _

 

 

__

Braydon looks at Hartsy. Hartsy looks back. Braydon says, “What do you think that was about?” 

“I really – ” Hartsy keeps him eyes fixed on the wall in front of them “ – _really_ don’t want to know.” 

But of course, it can’t ever be that simple. Because fuck Braydon’s life. 

The second time one of the rookies asks him to stay after practice and run through drills, Braydon asks, “What’s with the sudden uptick in practice time? You worried about something?” 

The kid looks down at the ice. “Oh, well actually I usually ask Carts, but he’s not – he hasn’t been around.” 

Which is true. Richie has been sulking in his room the last three days, and Carts has been god-knows-where, because they currently seem unable to occupy the same space at the same time without the air crackling with impending doom. 

Braydon says a brief prayer of thanks that the season’s over. 

 

 

“So seriously.” Braydon sidles up to Hartsy in the lounge, right after Richie has blown out of the room, having yelled at everyone for – for watching television? For having fun? It’s unclear. “What the fuck? This shit is seriously starting to have, like, ramifications.” 

Hartsy doesn’t look up. “Oh, big word, that.” 

“Fuck you. Seriously.” He punches Hartsy in the shoulder and waits for him to pay attention. _“Seriously.”_

“Fine.” Hartsy sighs. “Loops will know. Loops has a hand in everything.” 

 

 

Or a _dick_ in everything. 

“Loops, are you a goddamn fucking idiot? What is _wrong_ with you?” Hartsy has two hands fisted in Loops’ shirt, thumping him up against the wall. 

Loops has the decency to at least look like feels bad about it. “It wasn’t supposed to – ” 

“No. No. Let me get this straight. You looked around, and you saw that the guy-who-is-going-to-be-captain and the leading-goddamn-goal-scorer are – ” Hartsy lets him go, throws his hands up in a gesture of frustration “ – and you decided you’d _fuck_ one of them?” 

Loops opens his mouth – 

“No. I repeat,” Hartsy says, getting very, very quiet, and very grim. “What is _wrong_ with you?” 

“I would fucking tell you if you’d let me get a word out.” Loops brushes off the front of his shirt, indignant. There is a pause in which Braydon waits and Hartsy glares. “Okay, fine,” Loops admits. “It was a bad idea.” 

“A bad idea.” Hartsy shakes his head, jabs a finger hard into Loops’ chest. “You think this is fucking funny? Somebody on this goddamn team is going to get arrested.” He takes a step back, turns away. “Or worse. So fucking fix this.” The last is called out over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know how I’msupposed to fix this,” Loops grumbles. “Neither one of them is talking to _me_.” 

Braydon rubs the bridge of his nose. 

But he does wait up, well past curfew, after everyone else has passed out. And he does catch Carts slinking back in from where ever he’s been. The lounge is dark, and Carts starts hard when Braydon says, “You know all those things we don’t talk about?” 

Carts freezes and looks at him. “Uh.” 

“You don’t fucking get away with them because nobody knows,” Braydon’s facing away, but he can hear Carts behind him. “Everybody fucking _knows._ You get away with it because we keep our mouths shut, and we cover for you when we have to.” 

It’s quiet enough he can hear Carts swallow. Braydon turns around. “And we cover for you because it doesn’t fuck up the team. Do you understand me?” 

Carts nods, eyes bright in the dark. 

“Richie’s in his room.” Braydon turns back around. “Fucking fix this.” 

* * *

 

 

_“Home,” Jeff says. “We’re headed home.”_ [[...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/786671)] 

 

 

She was building a fence when he came back to her – emerged out of the woods, hollow-cheeked and wild, wearing new scars, but no less instantly recognizable. 

She had not screamed, had not dropped the hammer she was using, or the board, but carefully set it aside, as if any indication of shock would shatter the moment, would reveal it as fiction, as wishful illusion. But he was warm and solid under her hands. She held onto him like there was no force that could make her let go, his face wet where it pressed to hers. “My son,” she said _. “Mike.”_

It had taken a minute – her eyes had needed to take in his eyes, his wild dark hair, his hands, his chest – solid and whole, to confirm what touch told her – but eventually she had looked away, and finally noticed the man that had trailed out of the trees with Mike, just a step behind him. 

 

 

He is silent. Not much more than skin stretched over bone, even now, after nearly a month of living with them. 

He and Mike have a cabin, just a stone’s throw from the main house, and he is either there, shut in with the door locked and blinds drawn, or with her son. They explore the compound together, not quite touching, but never out of arm’s reach. While she watches, Mike will sometimes stop and point, and she imagines their conversations. _This is where I broke my arm when I was nine,_ maybe. Or, _this is where I had a fort. This is where I learned to swim._

They take their meals in the main house, and it’s a way for her to hold onto Mike. To see him seated at her table, to see him smiling – it settles something inside. So for him she pretends not to notice the way Jeff pushes the food aimlessly around his plate, the way he keeps his gaze locked on the table in front of him, the way he is a constant, silent shadow trailing her son when Mike gets up, even if it’s just for a moment, an errand to another room. 

Her husband raises an eyebrow at her. She looks back at him. 

“Mike,” she says, after the table has been cleared of all but coffee cups. “Can I speak with you?” 

“Sure.” He looks sleepy, content. Her son, under her roof, at her table. “What’s up?” 

“Alone?” 

He frowns at that, and glances back at Jeff. Some silent conversation passing between them in a language all their own. “I’ll just go back to the cabin,” Jeff says, hardly more than a whisper. “It’s fine.” 

Mike watches him leave. Then he turns his gaze back on her, his expression one that’s hardly changed since he was fourteen, drawn up and indignant. Ready for a fight. “Okay, now seriously – what’s up?” 

“I want to talk to you about Jeff.” 

Mike’s mouth sets. “He’s family.” 

It’s the same thing he said to her that first night, after they spilled out of the woods: _This is Jeff. He’s – he’s family._

“Mike – ” Norm has his hands folded carefully in front of him. 

“Dad,” Mike cuts him off. “You know if you ask him to leave, I’ll go with him.” 

It takes her a moment to swallow around the tightness in her throat. “No one’s asking anyone to leave.” 

Mike glares at her, arms folded. “He just needs time to adjust.” 

“Mike, he hit Jason Connolly.” 

Mike swallows. “Jason startled him.” A tight shrug of his shoulders. “And anyway, Jeff apologized.” 

“You apologized,” Norm corrects. “At least according to Jason.” 

“Yeah, but Jeff – ” 

“Jeff needs to be able to talk to people,” she says. “He needs to be able to interact with people that aren’t you.” 

Mike looks down. “He’s been through a lot.” 

“I know,” she says. 

 

 

The next day, standing in her kitchen, Mike says to Jeff, “Okay – so I’m going to go with Dad. And you’ll stay here and help my mom.” Mike’s hands are on his shoulders. It sounds like a plan that’s been repeated many times. As though they’ve practiced this moment. Mike manages to make it sound complicated. Multi-step. 

Jeff nods. 

“Okay,” Mike says again. “Okay.” He takes a step back. “We’ll be back this afternoon, by five at the latest.” 

 

 

Alone together, Jeff looks at her, that odd, haunted expression on his face, as though she were something much more threatening than an woman pushing fifty, in her own kitchen. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t look either happy or sad; he doesn’t move – he just watches her, waiting. 

“This week I’m in charge of cooking for the communal kitchen, so we need to feed a lot of people,” she says. “We’re going to prep pie crusts here and then take them over, okay?” 

She waits until he nods, just a slight gesture of acknowledgment. All afternoon it’s the same cautious attention. “You have to add the water slow, you see? And it has to be cold.” Jeff is still silent, but his hands are dusty with flour. 

Pushing five, she starts losing him to window-gazing, eyes fixed for increasing stretches on the path Norm’s truck took out of the yard. 

But it’s Mike who basically sprints in across the grass. Mike who pulls him close like he’d been gone for days rather than hours. She can see his throat work, his eyes squeezed shut. 

 

 

They make casseroles and stews. Turn the rabbits and trout Mike and his father bring back into substance for the community. They’re growing; there are more mouths every week. 

“Keep stirring,” she says. And, “Add salt.” 

Jeff looks down at her. “How much?” 

“Taste it and see.” 

After a moment, he does. 

Jeff smiles at her, now. She gets a light touch to her shoulder by way of greeting. Mike can leave now without an air of panic settling over the room. Jeff tells stories sometimes, tells her what Florida looked like, the mountains of Colorado, about buses and road trips, although there are long stretches of silences between his words, as though he’s editing out all the things he doesn’t want to say. 

He still won’t touch the knives. 

 

 

That spring the last of the Northeast Division falls; they get an influx of former players, dark-eyed and quiet. The young ones she keeps close to the house. The ones whose hands won’t stop trembling she takes into her kitchen. “Jeff, this is Matt.” 

Matt watches him, wary and silent. Jeff gives him a mild glance. “Where were you?” 

“The Blue and – ” Matt stops himself. “Toronto. I was in Toronto.” 

Jeff hums at that. “Okay.” He gestures at the bowl in front of him. “This is going to be crust. The first thing you have to do is add water.” His voice is quiet, but steady. “It has to be cold, right? And you just go slow. You add a little at a time.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for indulging me, fandom :)
> 
>  
> 
> ...back to the grind.


End file.
